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Chapter 31: "Floating" A trance supine. Dense fog rolling through the body of dreams. Cold and real, it passes for hours over scattered tears, occasional clarity, intermittent resolve. For the love of wine, did Olney Garkle at last raise himself. Mission: dump more in the beer mug. The four litre jero-bottle had already transferred nearly half its contents into his body, mind and soul. Other, more errant centilitres had fallen on the carpet to create lupus-colored bursts. Olney picked up the bottle and carefully filled the mug. "Bravo, les gars," he said, congratulating the coordinated efforts of inebriated musculature. As he sought to place the spirited jug upon a steady surface--indeed, the floor was his goal--there arose between man befuddled and bottle in motion a brief struggle for supremacy. Half empty and still jiggling, the bonbonne vivante took on a momentum of its own, turning winy oceans into tidal waves against the forces of its bottle green finity. The hands of man, half-seas over, grimly gripped the equator, brain once again calling on all muscles (including reinforcements from calves and thighs) to stay the breakaway world in its attempt to disrupt the universe and spoil the party. And hands were victorious in the event. The 13.5 per cent vin extraordinaire retreated to stillness for the moment, biding its time. Quoth man, the winner and still champ: "Just I remember to keep ye corked." Dateline: Hell. Time: The wee hours. Olney pacing now, mumbling, gesticulating. "Gawd!" he said, walking in a circle. Rhonda was back. She slipped in while he was at the station, went straight to bed. Neither sight nor sound of her in four hours of drinking and pacing. He thought: Of course asleep now. But why's she back? Tonight of all nights ... unbelievable. Better keep m' yap shut so's not disturb. Mysterious beings, these women. Y' never know what they mean by what they say or do. No point speculatin' either. No matter which interp'tation arrived at, no doubt be proven the very opposite of what they meant. And won't they let you know about it'n the most embarrassing 'n' agonizing of terms, circumstances, whathaveyou. He shook his head. Think she might've had to pee, at least. But no. Female bladders built to hold through the night. Men drain at the bottom, thus milli amounts and its time to go again. Olney had conducted research. He'd shown Maggie the illustrations from a book on gender differences he'd found at the British Library, and then proceeded, through the course of the evening, to urinate seven times to her once. First thing in a new town: find pertinent public toilets. He was relieved to find Rhonda in hiding. Like a shot dog, he wanted to be alone. Won't give me any, anyhow. To her he might say anything, including how much he loved her, and it would all be held against him. My, my. Not so much so fast so drunk in years. He paused to reminisce: Since the vendanges ended in seventy--what was it? Six? No, seven ... six. 1976, Vosne Romanée. Finished in the morning, near the Clos de Vougeout, the old chateau looming above the vines like a painting commissioned by the very Ducs, eux mêmes. Wait. Nope, not those vineyards. Started there. Finished nearer the village, where the soil was like clay, rich and butterscotchy, you could almost roll it into little balls. And near the surface, sometimes right on the surface, were fossils from the sea ... from hundreds of kilometres away and milliards of years. Big Shell-Oil fossils. Crunch has the best one. Gave the rest to ... I don't know who. Lovely mornings those early Octobers. Sun spreading like a fan over the Delft blue sky and immaculate rows of tiny grapes, the famous pinot noir, clustered tightly in purple, tearshaped bunches, ready for the snipping. Bloody backbreaking work. Bloody lost a piece of finger, too. Piece of skin, actually. Pénible, the only word for it. Mais rigolo, quand même. Stopped every so often for a slug of wine brought by the old porteur, Monsieur Joseph. He called the girls 'bébé', but I kissed 'em. Kissed Christine, dit 'La Blonde,' every chance I got. Well, hardly ever, really. Christine Jamais, I called her, 'cause she never would. Put a red red rose in her blonde blonde hair one frosty night, bunch of us out for a stroll. After it'd been there awhile, absorbing fragrance, I took it out, ate the petals. Romantic move misfired, she laughed her head off. Drank a lot in old Vosne, not the good stuff, o'course, but every day and night, got the tannin terrors, I did. Hot then cold, and shaky. Stomach too. Felt like it was being dosed with Sani-Flush all the time. And then more wine at the finishing day lunch, wine of a better quality for once: fruity, velvety, bouquet of violets, etc. The season finished so soon, only two weeks. They brought out the Marc next. Poor man's cognac, leavings of the leavings but potent, O Lloyd. And finally the farewell champagne. Boy, oh boy. French locals and their perm'nently red faces turned to beets by the end of that matinee. Left in the afternoon, reeling into Beaune with fellow vendangeurs, including sweet Marie Christine, she never to be seen again because too drunk by then to but drink more, I peeled off by m'self and into the catacombs of the Marché aux Vins, ten francs to sip over forty different wines, tried maybe fifteen? Very dark catacombs. Cool. Indirect lighting on little arched recesses wherein the fine wine in question. Two English women giggling my way. Ooh, I was saying, and Ahh. Tried maybe more than fifteen? God, and then the outside world. Walking, ha-ha. Tail of sporty seersucker coat swinging back and forth from one step forward followed by a sweeping arc to the rear, found myself behind by two steps. Nothin' to do but crawl. Yep, crawled on hands and knees, ladies 'n' gennulmen, in daytime downtown Beaune, chère La France. Finally opened the unlocked door of a parked car, fell backwards onto the seat as if were a jett'soned spaceman falling end over end and on and on. Sometime later the car's owner gently woke me, repeat gently. Asked would I leave his voiture. Asked! And me--Je m'excuse profondement, monsieur--dreamily scurrying away, somewhat soberer by then. Down the back streets of a black and white mis-avventura, hoping to God it was approaching dawn and not what in fact it was, by the clock at the train station: twilight! Not to mention it's last glea-ea-ea-ming. No more locals to Vosne! Spent the rest of the night there, a hungover and hobo Proust, remembering everything and more from who knew which life. And now it was happening again. Olney had already paced a few miles from one end of the room to the other. Clots of red wine also wandered over the dirty white carpet like clues of dripped blood on a downtown sidewalk, the trails of both staggering beneath the shoes of the null and void. From time to time he tripped over nothing at all. He wanted to put on a record and blast his thoughts away. But then, Rhonda. And the neighbors upstairs, with their pipe-pounding enfant diable itching to be unleashed to commit revenge. Olney wished he could sleep. But this night would have to be guarded, minute by minute, until his body was ready to cave in. To bed too soon and every nerve would suddenly leap sideways the minute his eyes closed. Self-inflicted Tragedy, coupled with those alcohol-induced inner jitters, always brought a visit from the demons, this lifetime's favored representative being the firebreathing Christian Deity, that hulk of unforgiving venom who shook him like jelly because jam was more than Olney Garkle had. Gelid jelly heart getting his. Hiding his weaknesses with bons mots. Sacrificing one woman for another in bad taste. Juvenile dilettante still unaware of consequences. Oh, yes, tonight he would fear sleep until his consciousness was paralyzed. Above all, he feared those chthonian visiteurs du soir. Maybe he'd fucked up so bad the usual Carnival Goblin of Baptist Wrath would be whisked aside by the All-lives Absolute Horror: none other than the transgressed Great Mother Herself. She it was who would come to evaginate his pores, one by one, until his body looked like a massive cushion of tiny nipples. Then She would pop them one by one, noting, as She worked, the changing pitch and duration of his screams. Owing to the immensity of Her task, she would choose the moment when their tonal richness ceased to vary. Then, and only then, would She finish Her job by ripping him to shreds. He knew these nights well. The mourning nights for which indulgence was the only solace. Bereaved of sanity from careless attention to mortal certainty. Penitence of the kind that called for alcohol stimulo-degradation. Puerophilia! Yet, he felt a perverse attraction to these crises; they were nadir experiences, every bit as intense as the healthier, more peakish sort. Pain! Who needed it? Everyone. For pain alone could be endured and loved. At three a.m. he decided to call the ferry. And if his talking should wake Rhonda, well, he might just jump her and end any future at all. First he tried the easy, English-speaking option, by calling British Railways: no answer. Then he tried the S.N.C.F. at the Gare du Nord. A lengthy discussion in mutually exclusive tongues collapsed when both conversants hung up in frustration. Next, he called the operator. Her English was not very good; she passed him to another operator who couldn't understand a word he said. Finally he called the police in Calais. The officer at the other end spoke no English whatsoever, but Olney detected a sense of cooperation in his voice, an intent to communicate. Olney's mind suddenly unjammed; was this the key to human relationships? A simple will to accept and listen to The Other? To be penetrated by the presence of another person without in some way trying to foul up the exchange? Olney's limited French became clear and concise. The officer was moved by his story. After consulting with his fellows he gave Olney instructions for calling the St. Anselm, then ploughing the choppy waters of the English Channel. Olney's hopes soaring like an albatross, he got through without a hitch. He asked the standardiste to page Miss Margaret Bebette. "Comment elle s'appelle?" she asked. Olney thought he detected a hint of mockery in the woman's voice, but never mind. Yes, he confirmed, the name was Bebette. The operator left the line to make the call. Olney knew it would work; no one else on the boat would have such a name. The officer from Calais had been a good omen. He was imagining Maggie curled up in discomfort--perhaps asleep after hours of weeping--when the operator came on the line to say that no one had answered the page. Olney begged her to try again. Maggie was asleep; perhaps a steward or someone could walk around and look for her. That was not possible, said the operator, but she would page again. Indeed, imagined Olney anew, Maggie had been asleep, but now she was hearing her name being called. A miracle. Across these historic waters her name was ringing out. Unable to believe her ears, she sat up now, gripping the edge of her seat. A big smile lit her face as she rose to return to her destiny, a destiny embodied in the person of Olney Garkle! She was asking someone where to go. Olney saw her rushing upon the operator with the words: "C'est moi. Je suis Margaret Bebette." He felt his own keeling ship beginning to right itself in this heroic moment of love triumphant. Somewhere on the frothing albatross-ridden waters of the English channel, a small voice was about to speak. "Désolé monsieur," the operator said. "Personne n'a répondu à votre appelle." Olney slammed the receiver down. Well, where was she, then! Hiding out in Calais with a French sailor? The cunt! No, she wasn't having the time of her life in some cheap hotel room in Normandy. Oh, no. The cunt was asleep. Destiny had called and found her snoring. Didn't that just make him want to puke? She could have at least been awake, told the steward: No, I won't take the call. Instead? Asleep. Catching Olney with his rat pack of selves jeering: Ya blew it, ya blew it. Gonna pants ya, give ya a pink belly, ha-ha-ha! O ignoble reward for listening to the Byron within. He lay back, funked in the worst way from missing her. Why was life always hitting him with the one upshot he hadn't counted on? She had to be on that ferry, God damnit! He hated being so romantic, but what could he do? It was his nature and he would go to the ends of the earth to make a romantic point. Hadn't he hitchhiked from New York to San Francisco one summer to see the girl with one eye he had fallen so madly in love with the night of her going away party? (The other eye--brown, glassy and weirdly mesmerising--had been lost in a fall from a horse.) Only to be told by the new boyfriend, towering above and behind her in the new abode, to "beat it, creep"? He'd beat it, of course. Yet the excitement of five days on the road had made it all a memorable, if useless, experience. In fact, he'd be happy to do it again. On the road! Days and nights following one another in peak succession, catching rides along remote country stretches, dodging police on the Interstates, stranded in the wee hours on the outskirts of towns and forced to sneak into unlocked cars for a little sleep ... on second thought, maybe he wouldn't be so happy.... Yet, there were perks. On that trip he'd certainly had his fill of lusty stimulation from fucking Liquid Legs on the Greyhound out of Kansas City clear to Denver. (He'd given her that moniker because, once her panties were removed, the gravy of love did not cease to flow like molten silver over the down of her rosy thighs.) What did it matter that the One-eyed Angel had hired a bodyguard? But now. In Nineteen-whateveritwas, in the bloody wee hours again, well, when Olney Garkle made heartbreaking calls to ships at sea he expected the object of his obsession to be awake enough to give him a no-bones beat it, creep! Oops, he meant "the object of his affection." On further thought, he'd better replace "object" too.... But that was his former beloved, through and through. Sleeping blithely whilst he in noble anguish tried to crawl through the telephone to where she sat, curled up and oblivious. Going home to mum now, the woman who taught her to unfocus! Hadn't he seen that mother's daughter carefully iron her clothes and then throw them carelessly in a drawer? Hadn't he watched with amazement as she squirted liquid soap into the dish water and then proceed to wash the dishes without first agitating the slimy detergent into suds? Hadn't he come home--call it often--to a living room nature morte consisting of the vacuum cleaner lying like a dead thing as it straddled the border of a clean/dirty carpet? Was he merely a nit-picker, a petty griper? Hadn't she, according to Belle Nipponovich, on more than one occasion taken the stub of her paycheck to the bank while leaving the check itself at home? Wasn't she always locking herself out of house and apartment, the keys hidden safely inside under some item it might take hours if not days to remember she even had? Once, that is, she managed to get back in? Was he splitting hairs? Or were these anecdotes merely the tip of a mindless iceberg! "Asinine!" he fumed aloud, wishing she were here to berate. He needed to blame her for as much as possible, especially for not being the little woman behind his flowering genius. It all narrowed to a single fundamental trait, he assured himself: the emptiness he had always felt in her. Was mum the same? Behind Maggie's girlish enthusiasms lurked a self-destructive refusal to participate directly in life. She came at it from a dream. Her soul was like a ghost town, abandoned since childhood. Yes, that was it. It was her fault. Maggie was Olney's entropy. Because his soul was at heart a flourishing, a flowering, a ... a-floundering. Let's face it, he moped, Olney Garkle had been no help. Somewhere along the line of least resistance they'd begun to lose touch, long before Rhonda entered the picture. He became tyrannically sarcastic, picking at everything she said or did. And Maggie had retreated inside herself, crouching in a corner of her mind, as if transplanted against her will from some primitive civilization to this strange city, a place more frightening than all the ritual horrors of her life as a savage. He saw her standing at the entrance of a cave that gave way to the core of her being. Behind her back she clutched a handful of steaming raw innards. She snarled at him, fearful of losing her prize, when all he wanted was to tell her about fire. Well, it might look good on paper ... he'd have to use it in the book. Wince. The truth was, their premise--that wild children with guts always land on their feet--was false. A random definition of life with a velleity of hope that became, like their relationship, a shadow that finally stepped over the cliff. They were not children. He reached for the wine, aimed for the beer mug and filled the carpet. The bonbonne, sensing sozzled hands on its girth once again, tried to shake up another storm: Gonna make it this time! But Olney rallied, diving through the spots in front of his eyes for a tenacious counterattack. Grasping it firmly by neck and bottom he contained the swells of frustrated evolution, leaned it on the rim of the glass, poured steadily. Pencil up your nose! snapped the bonbonne, settling again. Pacing again. A few feet forward, actually, then stop. Teetering he was, that telltale "arc de Beaune" warming up in the limbic locker room. Jumbled, his thoughts tumbled forth. Now, why'd I have to mention the book? Stomach just wants to jump ship at the thought. Hey, but it's the only reason to live, isn't it? Never used to be, though. Any old thing was then. Until started yapping about "the book." Now've got to. Want to. Must! Otherwise, be one of those foolish characters always gonna write never do. Finally take a job at fifty-five, distinguished looking gentleman running the shoe department at Penney's. Living to support solitary rituals, evocations of yore to prepare for the task, and now no task, just rituals, and all concerned with eating. Must cattle-call all wits. Must think, must act, must phoenix once again. A retarded solution brought a retarded grin to his face. A few tokes of hash'd be just the ticket, right now. Help to elevate this mind to that promised land where I canst do and do well, O Lloyd. A big sigh came instead, his shoulders sagging in mid-pace, his face overcome by the look of a little-boy-lost. Eh, but Maggie thought it was cute, that look. Sometimes. Fuck. Something on the record player, mightaswell, tired of pacing, put the headphones on, blast out. He searched Gaston Dutronc's record collection. No program music, please, not ce soir, thank you. None o' that contrived eloquence leading to emotional despair or whatever'nhell those nineteenth century fellas tryin' do. 'N Mahler too. Bananas music's I need. Let mind run free like a wave through space, no stops for particle-burgers and Beethoven. Up and away from pusher earth, first twenty years free, ha-ha, then you pay, buster ... and busterette too. Leave us debrief the density. He looked further. "Oh-ho-ho-no," sneering arrogantly aloud, "Chantal Goya!" He flipped through the rock 'n' roll history of the last two decades, with the odd unrelated items thrown in: Soviet Army Chorus, Trinidad Steel Band, Yma Sumac, Julio Iglesias. Ah, yes, now here ... flight music indeed. Hejira time in the old closed universe. He knew the record well: by Klaus Schulze, one of his best. Olney had played it so often in years gone by. Had thought the more of Gaston for having it. At one time--and still, even more so now--it had been the pulse of his life, driving him from one hamster rung to the next, the old lessons remaining unlearned per second per second. Here was life-versus-the-existential-dread set to music, and each listening was like fighting through another lifetime of timid, short-lived joys and far too much pain. He plugged in the headphones, lit another cigarette and listened to Schulze's masterpiece, "Floating." Flat on his back he stared at the rear screen of his eyelids, all reddened leader with flashes and sparks. He fervently wished the messenger would come with the hash. Instead, drugged somberly by the volume of wine--fruit of a heavy earth--he listened and saw himself as a grizzled old man, still striding from energy to energy, always on track, never opposed, never squared, driving nowhere and still driven, his life a series of willful excesses without resolve, a life manqué, in which he was forever popping uppers on slow moving trains or dropping downers on roller coasters. §§§ The music faded out as dawn faded in through the steamy windows. Olney took off the headphones and put them away. He lay back for a moment, then turned on his side, knocking over the half full mug. The carpet was a fullblown disaster area. He rolled over it all and reached for the telephone. From memory he dialed the number in Right Sock. It would be last night there. His old friend and avuncular advisor, Crusty Mantlecore, answered. "Y'hello." "Hi Crunch, it's Olney." Big beefbelly laugh across continents and oceans. "Well, well, and what's up, Olio?" From habit, Crusty found himself reaching for his wallet. "Meg split. The city's on fire. Gotta flee." "Yr kiddin'. Even I thought you two'd last longer'n this." Olney could see the midpoint of Crusty's mustache rise with mock disgust to tickle the hairs in his nostrils. "So where's Little Lulu," Crusty why-bothered to ask. "Well, jeez, Crunch, she's on her way back to your place." "Comin' back here, you say," the big man said quietly. "You comin' back too?" Thought he'd ask just for the hell of it. "Yeah. I need plane fare, Crunch." Olney, with hand over phone, let out a lungful of air. "You fuckin' Leos are all the same." Crusty got in a few long distance punches to Olney's shoulder, while the punchee, flat on his back, softly sang to himself: Sticks and stones can break my bones but words don't count so send the dough and bail me out. "How much?" queried Crusty, reaching for pencil and paper. "Uh, should be about five hundred and fifty, I reckon." Olney added the extra hundred dollars for a well-deserved mini-goodtime somewhere enroute. "American, that is." "American!" spat the dread Mantlecore. "That'll be at least $700 Canadian. How're you gonna pay it back, suckuh?" Crusty's snarl lunged through the phone for Olney's throat. "I'll sell wind-up toys at the beach, Crunch, honest I will." "I laugh uproariously," mirthless Mantlecore did sneer. Olney, in debt to everyone, still amazed more than angered them for his cheek. "Yeah, well, ok," Crusty shrugged, his ability to prophesy intact, at least. "When?" "Tomorrow." "Where?" "Royal Bank, Paris." And with those three little words Olney's clawlike grip on every nerve, muscle and fibre collapsed on a chaise-longue. Hey, it said, gimme a Bianco and soda, and make it snappy. "So what happened?" Crusty wanted the goods. "Uh ... 'nother woman, 'mong other things. Tell all when I get back." Olney not so committal here. Crusty snorted. "Thought you were gonna write that book." "I was going to start it." Committal-shy Olney defensive too. Crusty sighed, a booming, barrel-chested capitulation of a sigh. "Well, when do we expect you? About a week, I guess." Olney could see his solid hulk vibrating like a pulsar as he paced back and forth in the kitchen. "Yeah, 'bout that," Olney slurred. "Be on my way soon's I can." As if Crusty couldn't wait. The big man said: "I know Belle will be delighted to hear the news." Was he being sarcastic? Olney's mind started to sweat. Maybe that clawlike grip gonna lose its fancy drink already. Saved from the penniless unknown one minute, a bottomless pit of paranoia opens the next. "She'll be glad to see Meg, anyway," O. said lamely, showing his belly. Crusty's voice lightened. "Well, live and learn. I'll be glad to see ya. Getcha back here for some laughs 'n' serious drinkin', make somethin' of ya. But don't let's waste any more precious scratch on Ma Bell." "Adios then, and thanks, Crunch." "Soon." "And don't tell Meg I'm coming." Olney put down the phone and rolled over, onto the tumbled glass and winespill. He raked his hair, searching for the little yarmulke of his pate. Found it, clutched it. Hurts. Musta bibbed three litres there. Spilled a bunch, though. Condensed gravity, thousands, millions of grapes in veins. Get this parapluiging body to bed. Things to do. He lay like an overturned insect, hands groping for feet, head bobbing in a hopeless scan of possible directions to lunge in. "Gotta get up," he said to the ceiling. "Gotta clean the place, Rhonda'll be appalled." A gray filth of light slithered through the windows. Yet another day on Urantia. During a moment of rest between efforts to right his body, he thought: I'm saved. A là bonne santé de Crunch. And the Pootie again. Surprise her with a bottle of my favorite Cognac. Maybe I'll steal that record for her. Yeah. Tell her again how sorry I am ... for being so mean. Most of all, sorry that me and her didn't add up to us. Gotta tell her. But now, free again. Some coin and a jet plane, yay-yuh. Free for a little while, anyway. Have to say I'm sorry, clean up this mess, God, it's bloody awful ... §§§ The front door slammed shut. "Wha--?" Olney sat up, startled and dizzy. Mercifully wakened from a dream in which he was trying to remove small pieces of broken glass from his ... what? Tostadas? "No Mexican food in years," he said agitated, aloud, "gotta get back to California if only for that. And only for that. Cal-Mex, bar none, the foremost palatal salivator du monde. But, hey ... where am I?" He looked around with bloodshot eyes and a creaky neck. "Morning already. That was Rhonda going out the door. And me found sprawled on the floor with spilt wine everywhere. Even had to step over me. Gawd almighty!" Olney crawled frantically to his feet and ran to the kitchen, dove for the tap. He drank two glasses of cold water, staggering in place, clutching nailed down corners, thankful this once for gravity. Reeling now and more drunk than ever, he grabbed at a cupboard door and lunged for the box of salt. "Tidy-up time, got to houseclean. Garkle Janitorial Service: Disasters our specialty. Now, then ..." He scanned the night's debris: all of it was below him, miles below. To bend down a frightening endeavor. He had to brace his quivering legs with forearms squarely across lower thighs. In this way he hopped around the living room pouring salt on the wine blotches. "Stupid remedy. Never seen it work yet, enough times tried. Old wives 'pothesis. But, try anyway." He cleaned as best he could, ambulating wildly to make the simple distances between two points. Reaching to remove Klaus from the turntable, he tripped over the almost empty, sniggering bonbonne. The little collision so shocked his nerves that, overcompensating to avoid crashing to the floor, he sent himself flying across the room. "Oh!" he said, "look out the window, shall we? A clear day, how 'bout that. First in weeks." He squinted at the street below. "Young mother there walking with her tiny daughter, cutie-pie's-a-pair. Petite fille dressed 'maculately like all Parisian girls her age: there's a bonnet, long darkblue manteau, white gloves ... little girl, happy mother, sunny day, world in order." Tears rolled down his cheeks, he could even hear them. Just as his perception took in the girl's black patent leather shoes, he teetered, the slight movement lurching him off to further migrations. En route to a certain collision with the record player, he kicked over the rubber chair and made a surprise detour to the wall behind it. Bouncing off the wall, he succeeded in unmooring not one, but two of Subji's prized paintings. With the panache of a man who is destined for an old age of silk robes and phlebitis, he escorted the paintings to the floor, coming to a restful heap beside them. He lay quietly for awhile, until large insects, incarnating on the spot, began to terrorize his nerves by buzzing and diving at his eyes. "Get away," he yelled, flailing his hands and arms at them. Then he started to laugh. "Hey, this is really fuckin' great." Hoisting himself to hands and knees and shaking like a bowl full of jelly, he tried to scratch his belly with a toe and fell all in a heap again. "Wow. I'm the grandest man what am. Rumdum de siècle here, got no woman no pride 'n' borrowed cash. Hell, I'm too precious to live, oughta commit suicide from sheer perfection." Howling once more with laughter, he rolled over on his side, knees inching up to the old fetal. "Oh, no y'don't!" He sat up rather quickly. "Maybe suicide, but never nuts." He rubbed his head. "Tête's fulla Merde d'Or," he said, rubbing fiercely. One giggle. The last. Olney got up and lumbered down the hall, bouncing off the wall once, twice and then again. He stumbled into the bathroom to the sink, turned on the Calcutta Road Show, ran cold water over hands and wrists, splashed it on his face. "God, that feels good." He stared in the mirror, at the reversed image of himself. "Now isn't that the funniest thing." He stared hard at the face. "I'm the only one ever sees that guy." To everyone else he looked like the one doing the staring. A person he's never seen. Who Maggie always saw. Just as I thought, he thought. Unconscious to the core. I don't even know what I look like. Need videos in der walls. Replay our piteous auditions and weep. "Hey, you," he said to the mec in the mirror, "look me in the eye." But Olney had trouble looking himself in the eye. He couldn't look a dog in the eye, either. Afraid one or both might commence to snarl and tear out throats. In his own eyes he might find worse. Worse than that, he might find nothing. He liked to swim in the eyes of women, though. Some were worth the price of admission to life on earth. Maggie's eyes, well, they weren't the best, but he swam there too. Brown peep-a-dot's. Near-sighted as he was, he never could figure out exactly what he saw in those little pricklights to her soul. Which reminded him: "Hard, too hard on her. Tyrant in spite of myself. Brought out the worst in us, we did. Her inattention. My insecurity at her inattention. Reduced her for it. In association with me she crumpled. In my hands she turned to ... shit. Mr. Older Man. In no way like Yves Montand, old Yves in his luxurious camel's hair overcoat, the world at his fingertips, though sad, so sad. Me, I'm sad, so sad, too. Trouble is, mine's the kind it takes six echoing flights to reach. And sit, Burt Lancasterlike, on the shabby bed, hear the springs creak hello." He dried his face and turned off the mirror lights. Looking once more at the dim other him, he thought: Well, we burned it. The little bridge across that eternity between us. No souls ever known to get across. Just hearsay if they did. Poor Pootie. Poor me. Without touching the walls, he made it back to the living room. Bent more easily to look again through Gaston's records. Where was it, now? Ah-hah! A pink-innocent and wide-eyed grin stared up at him. He groaned, standing up gingerly, not so drunk any more, just exhausted. He set the turntable to repeat and pressed ON. Then he hurried to the bedroom as fast as his head could stand the displacement of gaseous molecules battering it. Racing the tone arm he got into bed and snuggled against the Pootie's pillow. Strange, how a pillow seemed to contain all the smells of a person's body. Olney heard the needle hiss as it made contact with the record: Au château Nougatine, §§§ Visit LITO's sequel: The Moon Food Cafe |